


Months Of Worry

by california_112



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: Book : Le Secret de l'Espadon | The Secret of the Swordfish, Book: Le Bâton de Plutarque | Plutarch's Staff, Gen, London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/california_112/pseuds/california_112
Summary: "Squadron leader, isn't this your stop?" When Blake looked confused, the soldier- Young, he seemed to recall,- continued. "I assumed you were going to Professor Mortimer's hut…I'm sorry if I was wrong…""No, Young, it was just right." Blake replied, getting off hurriedly. "Thank you."As the train pulled away again, Blake marshalled his thoughts. He couldn't tell his friend outright, but there were more subtle ways to show worry.-or-Blake is worried about the future, but he can't talk about it. When he tries, he only worries Mortimer as well.SPOILERS FOR THE SECRET OF THE SWORDFISH, SLIGHT LINKS TO PLUTARCH'S STAFF
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. A Month Earlier, At Scafell...

**Author's Note:**

> This is badly posted because I'm not good at this, but the canon order for this 'series' is:
> 
> 1\. Plutarch's Staff (optional, I think it's a great book though)  
> 2\. Months Of Worry - 'A Month Earlier, At Scafell...' (first chapter of this fic)  
> 3\. All three The Secret Of The Swordfish books  
> 4\. A Month Later, In London... (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305014)  
> 5\. Months Of Worry - 'A Month (And A Day) Later, In London...' (second chapter of this fic)
> 
> This is horribly messy, but I hope it's enjoyed :')

Squadron Leader Blake left the staff meeting worried. The new figures…any war with The Yellow Empire would be far worse than previously thought. They were arming faster than could be reported, and the threat of a second opposition was putting even more pressure on the current war effort. Brow furrowed, Blake boarded a miniature train automatically, and was jolted into awareness sometime later by a hand on his shoulder.

"Squadron leader, isn't this your stop?" When Blake looked confused, the soldier- Young, he seemed to recall,- continued. "I assumed you were going to Professor Mortimer's hut…I'm sorry if I was wrong…"

"No, Young, it was just right." Blake replied, getting off hurriedly. "Thank you."

As the train pulled away again, Blake marshalled his thoughts. He couldn't tell his friend outright, but there were more subtle ways to show worry.

Blake knocked briefly, but didn't wait for a reply before going in. Making a beeline for the coffee pot, he poured a mug before realising that he wasn't particularly thirsty. Abandoning it, he sat down, still thinking.

"Francis? Hello?" Mortimer looked around from his desk, a little confused.

"Oh, hello Philip." Blake replied, absent minded.

"Didn't you hear me the first three times?"

"Sorry, old chap, I've got a lot on my mind."

Mortimer stood and picked up the abandoned coffee, sipping it. "Care to share?"

"I can't. Intelligence." he was still wrestling with his thoughts, not really paying attention.

A cup of coffee was placed in front of him, and it seemed to galvanise him into action.

"Philip, I have a…gift, for you." The squadron leader reached into his pocket, drew out a jingling bunch, and placed it in his friend's hand.

Surprised by the sudden action, Mortimer stared at the small set of keys. "Francis, what's this?"

"The really battered key is for the front door, and the one to the right is for the cellar. The newish one is for the back door, I had to get it recut-"

"To where?" The professor felt like he knew, but he wanted to be sure.

"The flat in Park Lane."

Their eyes locked in silence, Blake looking tired and somewhat resigned, Mortimer confused and questioning. After a moment, the professor held out the bunch.

"I can't take these, you need them. Anyway, I know I stay there fairly often, but Mrs Benson is renting Park Lane to you, not me."

"I've talked to her, you're welcome to stay there any time you like. Especially now that it's your flat."

" _My_ flat? Francis, what-"

"Like you sleep here at Scafell, I've taken a bed in the Whitehall attics. There's too much going on for me to trek to Park Lane every night." Blake picked up his mug, half hiding the end of his speech: "Seeing as you're more likely to survive this war than I am, I'm giving it to you." He took a hasty gulp, unaccustomed to such displays of truth.

Mortimer blinked, disbelieving. Blake, usually so positive and unflappable, thinking he might not survive the war? This could not be.

"Francis, you mustn't talk like that." he said, after a minute of silence. "We're both going to survive, why shouldn't you believe that?"

"I can't discuss it in detail, but I've seen the reports of The Yellow Empire's _suspected_ strength."

"So have I. They're not much stronger than us, and that's without our allies."

"You haven't seen the recent ones. If anything starts- _when_ it starts- our only hope will be the Swordfish." Blake put down his mug, completely serious. "Without that aircraft, civilisation is finished."

"No pressure then." Mortimer forced a smile, trying to break the tension, but deep down, he knew that everything hinged on what was currently only a vague prototype.

The Swordfish was just so experimental, and there were so many unknowns. Development was a painstaking process even with the advanced laboratories at Scafell, and if they had to evacuate it would slow down progress tenfold. Blake was still looking at him, something in his eyes…pleading?

Making a sudden decision, Mortimer closed his hand, holding the keys tightly.

"I'll take them," he started, watching a small smile of relief blossom on Blake's face, "only for safekeeping though."

"But Philip-"

"That's final." Mortimer dropped the keys into his pocket casually. "You can have them back after we’ve won."

Now both of them were smiling, though neither of them would voice that most of their optimism was unfounded. Finishing their coffees, a small bell rang in the distance, causing Mortimer to check his watch.

"Goodness! I'm due in a meeting." Hastily abandoning his mug, he swept some papers into a briefcase and hurried to the door of the hut. "Another step towards victory!" he quipped, then was gone.

Blake watched from the window as his friend boarded a miniature train and was swept away. He was now certain that as soon as this comparative trifle of a World War was over, they would face a much bigger threat from Emperor Basam Damdu- and he knew, in his heart, that he was right to doubt his own survival. Blake was glad that Mortimer hadn't seen the latest figures from that meeting- in the first day of any attack by the current Yellow Empire, which grew stronger by the day, there would be an estimated fifty percent casualty rate, across the military and civilians.

One in two people would die.

They were two people.

The Swordfish was the key to victory, Mortimer was key to the Swordfish, and the Empire would be locked on getting them both. By duty, as a colleague and as a friend, Blake would do his all to protect his friend and the free world- if necessary, to the death.


	2. A Month (And A Day) Later, In London...

Waking up, Mortimer was temporarily confused. Soft sheets, warm air- he hadn't been injured, had he? Opening his eyes, he was relieved to find that this wasn't the Hormuz base's medical sector, it was too bright. So, where was he?

As he sat up, he started to remember. Finishing the work at the Strait of Hormuz, the flight back to London. Meeting Blake. So much ruin.

It was bright because the curtains were gone, the pole hanging at a precarious angle from one fixing, a variety of moth holes being held together by the crumpled fabric. He'd considered fixing it up yesterday, but just making the bed with relatively clean sheets had been an endurance trial, and he hadn't even finished getting changed before falling asleep. He must have slept all afternoon and through to this morning, as his watch showed it to be half past nine. Getting up, he re-christened his dust-filled laundry bin with slept-in trousers, and after finding that the shower now sprayed jets of slightly brown water everywhere except into the tray, hunted down another suit from his case. Finally, he made his way to the living room, wondering vaguely where Blake was.

A note on the coffee table explained: he'd gone into the palace to get to grips with his new office and hopefully get some work done, as well as meeting Honeychurch at the airport, who was flying back from Washington. He would be back in the evening, and bring some dinner, as Mrs Benson had gone to stay with some distant relatives near Scotland; sensibly, she wasn't coming back until London was more sorted out. All in all, Mortimer had nothing to do- except, of course, clear up the flat.

Thankfully the electricity was still working, and the cleaning cupboard was as it had been left. Although he hadn't really been one for housework, usually having others to do it for him, the professor didn't grumble at having to clear the debris; it was a good exercise in refamiliarization. Forgetting lunch in favour of reordering his bedroom, Mortimer spent the day hoovering, scrubbing, and polishing until the main rooms looked far closer to normal, though not completely spotless.

It was mere minutes after Mortimer had closed the cleaning cupboard again when he heard someone at the door. They first tried the handle, then knocked- opening it cautiously, Mortimer saw a familiar figure standing on the top step, a largeish paper bundle under his arm.

"Francis! I thought at first it was a burglar." Mortimer greeted, opening the door wide.

"No fear, I just forgot that I don't have any keys." Blake replied. "I trust you found my note- I've bought dinner."

The professor took the parcel into the living room whilst Blake shed his trench coat. The mention of keys had bought to the fore the memory that had been nagging him all day, just out of reach: one of their last meetings at Scafell, all that time ago. Examining the various greasy packages as he removed them from the bag, by the time Mortimer had arranged their dinner on the coffee table, Blake joined him, and they sat down.

"I hope you approve of my choice of cuisine," the captain opened, "I thought you'd appreciate something homely."

"Fish and chips are just what I needed." the professor responded with a smile.

Suddenly he became serious, and reached into his pocket. "Before we start, Francis, I have a gift for you." He drew out a jingling bunch, and placed it in his friend's hand.

"Your keys?" the captain was confused. "Of course, I can get another set cut tomorrow-"

"'You can have them back after we've won', I think I said- well, we've won, so I'm honouring my promise."

Blake was suddenly speechless, staring at the keys. Slowly, he remembered that day in Scafell, before the golden rocket, before the Strait of Hormuz, before victory.

"I've just got one question." Mortimer said quietly. "What really made you do it?" 'It' was clearly implied.

There was a minute of silence, before Blake closed his hand over the keys, and explained.

"Just before I arrived at the hut that day, I had seen the newest predicted casualty rate. Fifty percent in the first twenty four hours…one in two people."

"And we were two people."

"Yes."

"And you assumed it would be you."

"I hoped it would be me, if it was going to be one of us." A pause, Mortimer slightly shocked. "It almost was, countless times." Blake continued. "Ejecting from the Golden Rocket, stealing the Red Wing, escaping Tubat, uh…at the pyramid, the attack on the submarine-"

"In all of those, it could have been either of us." Mortimer pointed out. "And in the end, it was neither."

A shared gaze, seeming to last minutes. Blake broke away first. "I'm sorry for thinking that way."

"It's in the past now." Mortimer ate a chip reflectively. "And I'm glad you were wrong."

"So am I." Blake replied, with feeling.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until Blake spoke.

"I like what you've done with the place," he commented, "it's a very good job."

"I'm still surprised it wasn't looted," Mortimer said, "but then, I guess there isn't much of our stuff to steal."

Blake side eyed Mortimer, but the professor was occupied with his haddock.

"I suppose this place could do with a coat of paint," the captain said, half changing the subject, "our staircase is positively shabby."

Mortimer looked up slowly, tentatively, then back at his food. "I agree."

They fell into general chatter- 'how's the palace?', 'did you try the shower when you woke up?'- and eventually got up. Abandoning the greasy newsprint on the table, they made for their beds, both tired from their day's efforts.

* * *

Once again, Mortimer got up later than Blake the next morning, but this time was not confused. Dressing, and seeing that the shower was still out of order, he went downstairs to phone a plumber when last night's debris caught his eye from the living room, and he decided to clear that up first. Gathering up the wrappings wholesale, something fell to the floor and clinked softly, and stooping, Mortimer found that it was his set of keys, with a note attached. Instantly, he recognised his friend's handwriting.

'You keep this set, I've had another one cut. Now we can both get into our flat. Blake'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand its done!
> 
> I hope this makes sense, I'm really worried that it won't. However, it was fun to write, hopefully it'll be fun to read, and I've certainly learnt a lesson: Don't do a coda without knowing all the background, or this all could have been avoided :'D

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this makes sense
> 
> Ok so basically, how this happened was I wrote 'A Month Later, In London', then read Plutarch's Staff (which I'm not really sure why I've tagged, it's a good book I guess) and realised that it isn't Mortimer's flat! So I had to do something to rectify my mistake, and this was born. I hope y'all like it! One day I will write something for this lot which isn't a coda, I promise...


End file.
